


Unspoken

by Seraph_Novak



Series: Destiel One-Shots [26]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Emotionally Repressed, Heart-to-Heart, Hopeful Ending, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Season/Series 12, Realization, Sam Is So Done, Sam Ships It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 00:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12494328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraph_Novak/pseuds/Seraph_Novak
Summary: Fic request - Dean is sick of Cas making a mess all over the bunker. Sam is sick of Dean completely overlooking his true feelings for Cas. An unwanted heart-to-heart follows, and Dean comes to some realizations.





	Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in the space of four days? I know... I'm on a roll ;) This was another fic requested from someone in the Destiel Trash group on Facebook. I was planning on making it cute and fluffy, but it turned out pretty angsty instead. I'm not sure what happened, hehe. But the ending is hopeful, so there's that!
> 
> As always, your comments and kudos are very much appreciated! Thanks for reading :) ♥

A sock. That was what Dean was looking at. A dirty, black sock on the kitchen floor, right next to the goddamn fridge.

"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me," he muttered. "That's just gross."

His nose wrinkled as he pinched the sock between his fingers, holding it an arm's length away from his face as if were some kind of radioactive substance. He turned it slowly, eyes sweeping over the evidence for some kind of sign. The tiny, yellow bee stitched onto the ankle confirmed his suspicions.

"Damn it, Cas."

The library was quiet, the way libraries traditionally are. Sam was sat at the end of the long table with his head in a book, as usual. Locks of hair hung over his face as he studied the old print and dusty pages in his hands. Dean had to bite back the urge to suggest a hair cut for the billionth time. He didn't want to direct his frustrations at Sam, not when Cas was the real cause for complaint.

"Morning," he said, voice tight around the anger slowly growing like a hot pit lodged inside his skull. "You seen Cas around?"

Sam yawned and rubbed his eyes. "Nope. Not since last night. Why?"

"Oh, nothing. The guy just refuses to listen, is all."

"What happened now?"

"His fricking sock," Dean said, flinging the obscenity onto the table. He wiped any invisible germs onto his pants and shuddered. "He's been human for almost a year, Sam. How the hell's he not got the hang of laundry yet?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe he was in a rush."

"Oh, so that gives him the right to leave his stinking socks in the place where I cook our meals, huh?"

"Wow," Sam snorted. "You sound like a housewife."

"Yeah, well. I kinda _feel_ like one sometimes."

"I'm sure he didn't mean to leave it there. He probably didn't even realise."

Dean glared at the sock, daring it to back up Sam's theory.

"He does it all the time," he said. "I'm sick of picking up after him. It's like he thinks I'm his fricking maid or something."

"You kind of are, Dean."

"Excuse me?"

"Well," Sam closed his book, preparing for another Cas-centered debate. "You do let him get away with it. Ever since he moved into the bunker for good, you've been acting like..."

"Like what?"

"Like his wife," Sam said with another shrug. "You're always moaning about everything he does - and I'm always the one on the receiving end - but deep down, I think you secretly enjoy it."

Dean scoffed. Leave it to Sam to twist some harmless bitching into a declaration of love. He wasn't playing the role of a stay at home mom to fulfil some sick, sexual fantasy of his. He didn't get excited at the thought of picking up Cas' crunchy, sweat-dampened socks every morning. He only did it because no one else was going to. It's like Sam didn't even notice how much of a slob Cas had become since losing the last of his grace.

"Yeah, right," he huffed. "I really enjoy cleaning up Cas' mess everyday. My heart's all a flutter just thinking about it."

"Will you at least hear me out?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm listening."

Sam was quiet for a moment, silently building up to what he was about to say. A few painful seconds passed before he finally began to speak.

"I know you still think about it, what happened to him last year. I know you still feel partly responsible," he said. Dean could tell by the softness of his voice that he was trying to be sensitive, that he didn't want Dean to lash out at the memory of Cas' death. He appreciated his brother's delicate approach, but the image of Cas sprawled out on the ground - the scorched remains of his wings stamped into the dirt - still haunted his dreams to this day. No amount of soft-spoken words was going to make talking about it any less brutal for him.

"What're you getting at?"

Sam pressed his lips together. "He was gone for a long time, Dean. We had to say goodbye. We had to _grieve_. And I saw what that did to you. Losing him, it almost broke you. If he hadn't have come back -"

"Well, he did."

"But if he _hadn't_ ," Sam sighed, fiddling with the squashed spine of the ancient lore book he'd been reading. "I don't think you'd have pulled through. Not this time. Not without Cas."

Dean licked his lips, a nervous habit. "We've lost a lotta people, Sammy. I'm still standing."

"But Cas is different. You know he is."

"What the hell's this gotta do with his fricking _socks_ again?"

"You like fussing over him," Sam said, unperturbed by the venom spiking Dean's words. "As much as you gripe about it, you like finding his dirty laundry all over the bunker. You like stocking up on extra tubes of toothpaste, just in case he decides to eat it again. You like driving an extra forty minutes down the road to buy his favourite pork rinds. You like washing his trenchcoat every time it gets covered in blood on a hunt. You like cleaning up after his mess, and you know why?"

Dean poked his tongue against his cheek and narrowed his eyes. He didn't really want to indulge Sam while he was lecturing him, but he was kind of curious as to where the floppy-haired idiot was going with this.

"Alright, oh-wise-one. Why _do_ I like cleaning up after his mess?"

"Because," Sam said, eyebrows raised as if waiting for Dean to understand. "It means that he's safe. As long as he keeps making a mess, you know that he's still around, that he hasn't left you again." He stopped for a moment, sighed through his nose, and added, "I mean... You can't clean up after someone who's gone, can you?"

Dean lifted his eyes to the ceiling and huffed a laugh. Sam was still staring at him expectantly when he looked back.

"What's with all this psycho-babble crap, huh?"

"It's not crap," Sam replied, his brow pinched. "I think you're more grateful to have Cas around than you like to admit. I see it in your eyes, Dean, every time I have to listen to you griping about the same old stuff that Cas does to piss you off." He dropped his eyes to the table, scratching a non-existent itch on the back of his hand, and Dean could tell that he was about say something sappy and ridiculous again.

"I don't think even _you_ realize it, but... The way you make such a big deal out every little thing he does all the time. I think it's your own stubborn way of telling me that you're happy, Dean. That _Cas_ makes you happy. You have no idea how to deal with that, so you pretend to get angry and frustrated with him, instead of admitting the truth."

Dean's throat rippled, his brows crunched together in an effort to keep his expression completely guarded from Sam. "And that is?" he asked, the words rasping in his throat.

"That you'd do anything for him, just as long as he sticks around this time," Sam said, eyes lifting gingerly to meet Dean's hard stare. "Because you love him. You love him, and you can't stand the thought of losing him again."

Dean stood there in silence, clenching and unclenching his fists as he stared back at Sam. There were tears in his eyes, but he refused to blink. He was too scared to break out of this spell, to face the consequences of Sam's confession. His confession _for_ him. His brother had just uttered the unspoken words he'd had hanging over his head for years. The walls he'd worked so hard to build around his heart were crumbling faster than he could repair them. He wasn't equipped to handle this kind of emotional discovery, not when Sam had just sprung it on him out of the blue. He was used to burying his shit as deep down as humanely possible, not acknowledging it. He sure as hell didn't want to _talk_ about it.

"Alright," the hoarseness of his voice surprised him. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Alright, that's enough. You're being fucking ridiculous right now, you know that?"

Sam threw his hands in the air. "I'm not the one drowning in a sea of repressed emotions, Dean!"

"You're making this crap up. I don't why, but you are. Maybe you're bored, I dunno, but you better get this screwed up theory outta your head before Cas catches on, okay?"

"What, you think he doesn't already know?"

"Have you said something to him?"

"Of course not," Sam said, lowering his voice. "Not that I need to."

"Oh, so Cas thinks I'm in love with him too, is that what you're saying?"

"No. I think _Cas_ is in love with _you_ , but he's too much of a coward to admit it. You're both as bad as each other."

"Right," Dean laughed sardonically. "Sure, Sam. Of course he does. I suppose him leaving his crap all over the place is his way of trying to seduce me, huh? 'cause apparently I've got a hard-on for dirty socks, according to you. I mean, really. You've got us both sussed out, haven't ya?"

Sam sighed. "What am I supposed to do? You're too deep in denial to even consider that what I'm saying might be true."

"It's not."

"How can you say that?"

"Because, Sam. I know how I fucking feel, alright?"

"I don't think you do."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah," Sam said. His eyes had turned sad, a tired version of the puppy-dog act Dean had grown so used to over the years. For a moment, he almost felt sorry for the guy, his brotherly instincts clouding his judgement. He had to leave the room before he did something stupid, like apologise. It was _Sam_ who was in the wrong here, and he refused to pretend otherwise.

"I'm going for a drive," he muttered. "Don't wait up."

He snatched up his keys from the kitchen counter, just as Cas came home from whatever the hell it was he'd been doing. Dean passed him on the way up the stairs, their eyes meeting for a brief, electrified moment. His conversation with Sam had left him feeling raw, like someone had peeled away his skin, right to the core of his existence. Cas could see his beating heart, and he knew. Right there, in that moment, he knew everything.

"Good morning, Dean," he smiled one of his not-quite-there smiles.

Dean bristled, jaw clenching. He shouldered past the ex-angel with a tight-lipped "morning" and went on his way. It was too early to be dealing with this shit. He wasn't in the mood to come to some sort of grand realisation regarding the way he felt about his best friend. Not now, not with the guy looking so befuddled and hurt by his brush off. The chick-flick moments would have to wait until after he'd been on the road for a few hours, until the cold sting of the passing air had slapped some sense into him. He'd look on the situation with fresh eyes later on, but for now... all he needed was his Baby, the road, and some classic, bone-shuddering rock 'n 'roll.

~~~~~

It wasn't until a few days later, after the whole thing had presumably blown over, that Dean really allowed himself to think about Sam's words. He was dumping his dirty clothes into the washing machine when a pair of black, honeybee socks tumbled into his lap. He'd told Cas to put his laundry with Dean's if his own hamper ever got full, but he hadn't expected to find their clothes mingled together like that, a terrifying display of domesticity.

"Damn it, Cas," he said to himself, a strange smile touching his lips as he held the socks in his hands. His eyes landed on the crudely sewn-on bee, and his smile only grew.

He threw them in with the rest of his clothes and turned on the machine, waiting for the swirl of colours behind the glass dome. A quick glimpse of black and yellow caught his eye, before being swallowed by a mass of flannel and faded jeans. For some reason, his heart skipped a beat.

"Well, Sammy," he shook his head and sighed, not nearly as surprised as he'd thought he'd be. "Maybe you were right."


End file.
